There was something about the way the ultra-rich gathered that always made Savannah Hale feel like an intruder. The air inside the Lexington Regency ballroom was too smooth, too quiet—like the hush before a deal was struck or a lie whispered.
It wasn't her first gala. But it was her first in years.
And she was no longer one of them.
The room glittered with chandeliers and curated charm. High ceilings held the echoes of laughter that was just a little too polished. Champagne flowed like liquid gold, dresses shimmered like oil slicks under the lights, and everyone moved like they belonged.
Everyone but her.
Savannah clutched her glass and tried not to let her fingers tighten around the delicate stem. Her crimson gown hugged her figure in all the ways she needed it to tonight—elegant, poised, and professional—but her skin buzzed with nerves. It wasn't fear. It was purpose.
She wasn't here for a drink. She was here for him.
"Remind me why I let you drag me to this capitalist circus?" Ava Sinclair's voice sliced through Savannah's thoughts like a blade through silk. Her roommate—and best friend since college—stood beside her in a slinky black number, sipping something dark and bold.
"Because I'm investigating Thorne Enterprises," Savannah murmured, scanning the crowd with trained precision, "and this is the fastest way to get in the same room as Julian Thorne."
"I meant besides the part where you voluntarily throw yourself into a pit of wolves."
"Don't worry," Savannah replied dryly. "I brought silver."
Ava snorted. "You're not funny. Just suicidal."
Savannah didn't answer. Her gaze had locked on a figure across the room—tall, refined, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit. Him.
Julian Thorne.
CEO of Thorne Enterprises. Net worth: twelve billion and rising. Known for gutting companies with surgical precision and building others like a god constructing worlds. The business media painted him as a visionary; his enemies called him ruthless. Savannah had spent the last three months chasing whispers and paper trails, and everything led to one name.
Now she was looking into the eyes of the man who held a city in his palm.
And he was looking right back.
Their gazes collided like two sides of a matchstrike. Her breath caught—not from nerves, but from the jolt of recognition. He didn't smile. Neither did she. But his expression shifted, just barely. Curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.
Then he started walking toward her.
"Oh, hell no," Ava muttered. "Sav, abort. That's a shark in Brioni."
But Savannah couldn't move.
Julian stopped three feet away. The air between them thinned. Up close, he was a study in control—dark hair swept back, eyes like tempered steel, lips that looked carved for diplomacy and destruction.
"Savannah Hale," he said, his voice low and rich like whiskey behind glass.
He knew her name.
Not just her face, not just her body in a dress—her name.
So he had been paying attention.
She tilted her chin. "Mr. Thorne."
A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Approval, maybe. Or interest. "I was told you were persistent. I didn't realize you were also bold."
"You haven't seen bold yet."
Julian's mouth curved into something almost-smile. "Then consider me intrigued."
"I doubt that's easy to achieve."
"It's not," he said simply. "Would you care to explain what an investigative journalist is doing at my foundation's charity gala?"
"I'm covering corruption in luxury real estate development," she said coolly. "Thought I'd start at the top."
He chuckled—deep, amused, dark. "That's brave. Some might say foolish."
"Some have said worse."
"I imagine they have." His gaze lingered on her face. "But I don't believe in underestimating a woman with fire in her eyes."
A strange flutter stirred in her chest. She pushed it down hard.
"I'd like to speak with you," she said. "On the record."
"I'm sure you would."
"You can clear your name. Or confirm what I already suspect."
Julian's jaw tightened a fraction, but then relaxed. "You've done your homework."
"I'm good at what I do."
"So am I," he murmured.
For a long, taut moment, they just stared at each other—two people who had never met, and yet knew exactly what the other was.
Dangerous.
"I have an idea," he said.
"Let me guess," Savannah replied. "You'll tell me everything, but only if I agree to some complicated game of cat-and-mouse that ends with me regretting it."
Julian leaned in. "I was just going to invite you to my office."
"Oh," she said. "Right."
"Tomorrow. Noon. You'll get your exclusive."
"Why?"
"Because I don't like being misunderstood," he said. "And because you interest me, Ms. Hale. I can't decide if you're here to ruin me—or save yourself."
Before she could answer, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving only the ghost of his cologne and a million new questions.
Back at their Brooklyn apartment, Ava was pacing in a silk robe, wine in hand, as Savannah kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the worn couch.
"Well?" Ava demanded.
"He invited me to his office."
"What? Are you serious?"
"Noon. Tomorrow."
"That's not a meeting. That's the setup to every power-play seduction thriller ever written."
Savannah laughed softly. "He's not that charming."
Ava raised a brow. "You sure about that?"
Savannah hesitated. "He's… intense. Calculated. Not what I expected."
"Which means worse."
"I know what I'm doing, Ava."
"You always think that—until you don't."
Savannah sighed. "This could be the story that clears my family's name. Dad's name."
Ava's face softened. "I know. Just promise me one thing?"
"What?"
"Don't fall for the devil in a suit."
Savannah smiled. "I've met devils, Ava. This one bleeds like the rest."
She just had to figure out where to sink the knife.
The next morning dawned gray and cool.
Savannah dressed carefully. Not too formal, not too casual. A slate blue blouse tucked into black slacks, her press credentials clipped neatly inside her leather tote. No heels this time—just sleek ankle boots and the confidence that came from having something to prove.
Thorne Tower loomed in the Manhattan skyline like a glass blade. Sixty floors of corporate dominance, technology, and ruthless ambition. As she stepped into the lobby, she was greeted by a receptionist who didn't even flinch at her name.
"Mr. Thorne is expecting you."
Of course he was.
The elevator glided upward in silence, her reflection staring back at her from polished steel walls. By the time the doors opened, her heartbeat had settled. She stepped out into minimalist luxury—glass, steel, dark wood, and clean lines.
Julian was waiting by the window, overlooking the city like he owned it.
Maybe he did.
"Ms. Hale," he said without turning. "You're punctual."
"I'm also not here to waste time."
He turned. "Neither am I."
She followed him into a private office where every detail screamed power and precision. He gestured to a leather chair, and she sat. So did he, behind a desk that looked like it could survive a war.
"I don't give interviews," he said.
"So why me?"
"Because you're already looking under my bed," he said. "I figured it was better to invite the wolf in than wait for her to claw her way through the door."
Savannah blinked. "You think I'm a wolf?"
"I think you're hungry."
She leaned forward. "And what are you, Mr. Thorne?"
"An opportunity."
"For what?"
He didn't answer right away. Then: "Let me show you my world. The real one."
"I'm not here to be charmed."
"Good," he said. "Because I don't charm. I deal."
Savannah's pen hovered above her notepad.
"And what's the deal?"
"You get unrestricted access to me, my company, and my operations. For thirty days."
Her eyes narrowed. "And in return?"
"You delay your article. You see everything before you write a single word."
"Sounds like manipulation."
"No," he said calmly. "It's truth. Something I think you're after. Unless you'd rather write fiction."
It was a challenge. One she couldn't ignore.
"You think I'll see something that makes me change my mind about you."
"I think," he said, "you'll see more than you bargained for."